Twenty Three
by Kawi Leonard
Summary: Two hearts- one destined to never stop beating, the other aging with every second pasting. When the discussion of immortality and human life looms ahead, sometimes it's easier to take the selfish route and just not think about it. Thiefshipping Oneshot.


Bakura rested his feet on the table in front of him, bringing the cup of coffee to pale lips. Marik glanced over his shoulder at him, arching a single, dark eyebrow, although the Albino didn't take any notice. Usually, he'd lift his feet from the table, or face getting a smack around the head, although this time, despite the violet eyes that were throwing daggers towards him, they remained in place.

"You're not wearing any kohl today."

Marik started a little bit, and raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend. "No, no I'm not. It's Sunday. I'm not seeing anyone apart from your ugly mug, so there's really no need."

Bakura huffed with pretend offense, taking another drink of his coffee.

"You don't even like coffee, Bakura."

The albino shrugged, placing the cup on the table. "I know. But you humans seem to adore the stuff, so I thought I'd give it a go."

"You're human too, Bakura."

Another shrug and the pale man traced the outline of the copy with scarlet eyes, before he finally formed an answer.

"I don't feel it, sometimes." He paused, finally glancing up at Marik. "I don't know. I mean, sure, I am human. A human who had his soul infected with the epitome of darkness itself, is over three thousand years old, and has a body that isn't even really his."

Marik smiled softly. "So dramatic."

"It's the truth, Marik."

The Egyptian took a seat next to Bakura at the table. Marik as usual, looked fairly bored. He too hated coffee, and tea, and anything classed as a 'morning' drink. He also couldn't read at all, which meant a newspaper was wasted on him. He glanced to the side at Bakura, and scarlet eyes rested on their violet counterparts.

"Three thousand years old." Marik teased lightly. "I'm pretty sure this is illegal."

Bakura snorted. "The mind never ages, Marik. Just because I've 'existed' in this world for three thousand years doesn't mean anything. I'm still the same age as I was in Ancient Egypt."

"Ooooooooooold." Marik grinned.

Annoyance touched Bakura. "Shut up."

The Egyptian only repeated his tease, dragging the letters on for even longer. Bakura turned his head away, taking another sip of his bitter drink, and glaring out the window. But the continuing playful yowling behind him eventually pushed him to words.

"I was twenty three!"

Marik stopped, looking confused. "What?"

Bakura sighed. "I was twenty three when I died, Marik."

Marik went silently, watching Bakura with careful eyes. The Albino never tended to disclose personal snippets unless the situation depended on it. (Or the Egyptian was blackmailing him by doing some of his favourite things to him.) But there he'd gone and done- pushed Bakura to speak of something that he was pretty sure he would have had to otherwise offer his head for.

"Oh." It was all he could say. What else could he? How did you respond to something like that? When your boyfriend, who was a three thousand year old spirit of a thief king, using the body of a teenage boy who had no real choice in the matter, tells you they died at the age of twenty three? The little piece of information was the most important, interesting thing in the world, but at the same time it remained to be so painfully irrelevant it made Marik's heart throb.

"Yes." Bakura drank the rest of his coffee, swinging his feet off the table and taking it to the sink, washing off the dark liquid in complete silence.

Marik, however, continued to stare at an undefined point on the wall, his mind a little bit of a blank. He brought a hand up to run tanned fingers just under his eyes. As Bakura had pointed out, he hadn't bothered with his kohl today. There was no real reason. Not like his boyfriend cared if he wore the makeup or not. It was an Egyptian tradition, anyway, and living in the dreary streets of England didn't have the same charm as the old desert streets.

Without thinking about it, Marik pulled himself up. He got to his feet and quietly came up behind Bakura. A four inch height difference was enough for him, and he wrapped his arms around the Albino's waist, resting his head on his shoulder, nuzzling into pale, icy locks of hair.

"Only seven year's difference." Marik purred affectionately. "I think I can live with that."

Bakura was rigid for a few seconds, before he slightly leant back against the Egyptians strong chest, placing the cup down and sighing.

"Seven years difference." The Albino repeated. "But that number will change every year, Marik. You age, I don't."

Marik's heart twisted, and he shook his head. "Let's not talk about that."

Bakura went quiet, and Marik hated how awkward the air suddenly turned. Heavy with seriousness and implications of immortal discussions that often went on throughout the entire night, each coming to a blank conclusion- neither of them knew what to do.

"I was twenty three when I died three thousand years ago." Bakura repeated quietly. "But… You make me feel like I'm still twenty three. Even younger." He turned in the Egyptians arms, and Marik placed his palms on the kitchen counter on either side of him instantly, and Bakura smiled softly. "And for now, that's all I need."

Marik smirked, leaning forward to press soft lips against Bakura's. The discussion would come again, he knew. The trials and tribulations of the two twisted hearts- one destined to never stop beating, the other on a timer set by humanity. But in that moment, he could forget it. In the dreary, grizzled, rainy Sunday morning, they had no reason to deal with issues of the sort. No reason at all.


End file.
